


I Can't Help But (Not) Forget About You

by tommythedankengine



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Coming Out, F/M, First Kisses, High School AU, M/M, Pining, brentrick, way happier than my last fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9913577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommythedankengine/pseuds/tommythedankengine
Summary: “Munchkin, I know you’re gay and Brendon also happens to favor the Men, but you don’t have to be gay with Brownie, y’know? You’re leaving me out,” Dallon adds, his tone amused. Brendon and Patrick spring apart, red-faced, and in tandem, fling themselves to hug Dallon. His laugh echoes from the enclosed space and out into the class. They don’t care that people can hear them giggling like teenage girls; they’re lost in their own world.Brendon thinks that maybe he’s found his place in the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's been forever. i'm sorry. but, i had this idea after reading Halfsweet's "Never Lit a Match" (along with with accompanying fics) for a 4-part brentrick high school AU. brentrick is my guilty pleasure ship, i admit, and i've thrown myself in full force. this part alone (15k) took me about 3 weeks or so to finish, because of school, so i don't know when the next part will be finished. this won't be updated as often as Alone In The Night, my baby. 
> 
> let me know if you want to see more! i'm really excited to share this!
> 
> (ps. this time around, it's an exercise for me to write in present tense. if it seems awkward, that's why.)

 

Brendon resents his parents for moving mere weeks before his high school career—as his counselor refers to it as—begins. It’s a sort of anxiety for him—he’s not going to know anyone, let alone be able to make friends! He’s the weird kid with the dorky glasses and lisp-but-not-quite-a-lisp. He admits that he doesn't have too hard of a time making friends, but that’s beside the point. It's not like he likes it all that much.

At least, at his old school, in his old neighborhood, nestled in the relentless desert of Nevada, he knew people. In fact, he was rather popular. People liked him for him.

Not anymore.

His parents uprooted their family—which wasn’t an easy ordeal, given his 4 siblings—and hauled them across the country in a week-long travel extravaganza. Brendon is sure that he’s never going to travel by van with more than one other person ever again. It’s surprising that he didn’t end up murdering any of his siblings; he’s not sure if he can take any more whining or poking. If anything, _he_ should be the one whining, since he’s the youngest.

They moved into a nice home on the edge of a middle-class neighborhood. Brendon could admire the clean yard and new coating of paint, along with the sweet TV and video game room, but it didn’t make up for making them move. He was happy with his life, for once. Sure, he’s only 14 and life has its ups and downs, but he felt like he had finally had everything together. High school, with his friends, was about to begin, and he _finally_ found someone to give him guitar lessons.

Now, he has to start over.

He’s still not sure why his parents didn’t give him a fair warning.  

(Thinking about it, they _did_. Laying spread-eagle on his twin bed, he can picture the for-sale sign plaguing their front yard for the better part of his last year of middle school. He guesses that he had assumed it was for their neighbor or something. It's possible that he ignored it on purpose.)

Brendon lets out an aggravated sigh, glancing at his watch. It’s the morning of his first day of high school and he already can’t wait for it to end. He’s dreading the day; sure, he’s an A and B student, pretty good, but he’s missing the social aspect of high school. He knows that it’s only the first day and he’ll make friends in due time, he just wants them now. It tugs at his stomach; he wants the connections and friends that school will (at some point) offer him.

He just has to be patient, which isn’t a virtue of his. The bed creaks underneath him as he shifts restlessly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His heart is pounding out of his chest, flushing his cheeks, and his palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans and takes a shaky breath, hauling himself to his feet, his backpack strap weaving itself through his thin fingers.

“Brendon, the bus is here!” his mom calls from downstairs. Brendon rushes to the door and flicks off the light and fan. He shoots his room one last, longing glance before bounding down the stairs. He can do it.

“Coming!” he yells, sprinting out the front door—he’s too nervous for breakfast—and out into the cool September air. The bus stands at the corner of his street, bathed in golden light.

“Have a good day, sweetie!” his mom says from the doorway. He turns back, pushing up his glasses in a way he thinks as cool, and smiles at her. Backpack held firm to his back, he strolls casually to his bus, shoes dusting up pebbles.

 

 

Brendon’s watch beeps 7 AM when his bus pulls into the school yard, tires squealing over the asphalt. Kids are chattering around him, excited for the new year. He can see friends hugging each other, guys high-fiving, and smiles galore. He sighs and grips his bag’s straps tightly, pushing through the fast-moving crowd. Anxiety is bubbling in his stomach and he feels sick.

Gravel hits the back of his shins as he darts across the yard, heading for the front doors with speeds he wasn’t sure were manageable before 8 AM. People are everywhere; some are obvious freshman like himself, others upperclassmen along with the occasional administrator. He hopes that he doesn’t get singled out or used as an example. He’s sure that he might cry if that happens, which won’t make a good first meeting.

His stomach churns as he makes hesitant eye contact with his graduating class. Some people are sympathetic, reading his tiny figure; while others are annoyed, their stances clearly saying that he isn’t welcome to hang out with them. Brendon doesn’t blame them.

He crosses his arms over his stomach in a vain attempt to calm himself as his eyes move quickly over the swelling crowd. He’s close to the front door, he thinks, then: refuge, deep inside the halls of his new school.

Brendon stumbles up the staircase, dodging the incoming people who shoot by him. Without warning and completely on accident, his shoulder collides with a scary looking jock, who glares at his red face and mutters, “Fag,” before jogging off again. The students part like the Red Sea for him and Brendon feels shaky, his stomach flipping.  A perfect start to a perfect day.

High school’s looking better and better. He thought that now, ‘fag’ isn’t used as an insult. At least, that’s how it was at his old middle school. A rude awakening to the high school life. He vows to not let it affect him negatively; words are just words—it’s not like he’s being maliciously bullied. One, it’s the first day, and, two, the jock most likely says that to all the freshman, especially weird ones like him.

He’ll keep telling himself that. It’ll be true.

The heavy doors of the school slam closed in front of his lithe figure, quite nearly knocking him over and straight into a— _gorgeous older boy_. He's not gay, at least he doesn't know if he is, but this boy is pretty. “I’m sorry!” he squeaks, his face blooming red as he spins on his heel. The older boy is shorter than him by almost 2 inches, but he looks older than Brendon.

They both freeze as Brendon gets knocked by someone twice his size and falls to the ground. His palms scrape the rough concrete step and he knows that they’re bleeding.

Tears prickle his eyes and he feels all the air leave his lungs.

The guy has an instrument case in his grasp so he gently places it on the step, leaning against the pillar, as if it is his baby. Someone Brendon can relate to, a fact he would appreciate more if he wasn’t minutes away from breaking down. Anxiety bubbles deep in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” the boy asks, flinging a rough-looking hand down in front of Brendon’s face. He follows it for a second, not realizing what it meant for, before he grabs it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. “I’m Patrick.”

“Brendon,” Brendon replies, studying his busted up hands and trying to secretly rub his eyes. “P-Pleasure to meet you.” He curses his shaky voice; it’s thick, more than he wants it to be. He clears his throat as inconspicuously as he can; Patrick’s eyes follow the path of his shaking hand, up to his face and his sparkling brown eyes. People continue to rush past them and their voices are loud in Brendon’s ears; he tries not to flinch—he’s _got_ to get used to this.

“You as well. Sorry for knocking into you,” Patrick apologizes sheepishly. “Are you a freshman?” Brendon nods, flushing. “I figured.”

Brendon feels mildly offended. Does he really look that young—so much so that someone who’s inches shorter than him can pick out in a heartbeat? “What if I had said otherwise?” he questions before he can stop himself. His eyes widen and he moves hastily to apologize. “I’m sorry.”

Patrick laughs. “Don’t be, kid. I like it; keep it up, it’ll help you greatly. Now, don’t worry. I was in your shoes just last year—yes, I’m a sophomore. I know my height seems to say otherwise—and I understand.” He looks Brendon up and down and adjusts his sweater. (Brendon notices that he can pull off an argyle sweater _alarmingly_ well.)

Brendon leans in, close enough to smell the coffee in Patrick’s breath and get a whiff of his vanilla-cinnamon wafting scent, and whispers, “Is it as bad as they all say it is?” He hopes that Patrick catches his drift.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears a bell ring, and the crowd of people swells as they move towards the doors.

Instrument back in hand, Patrick smirks at him, some sarcastic remark brewing in his head when he notices Brendon’s wide, innocent stare. He seems to deflate.

“Not at all,” he assures. “Now, kid, go get your schedule—through the doors and immediately to your right—and face the day head on. I know you’re gonna go far; I can feel it.” Brendon nods vigorously throughout Patrick’s inspirational speech. He seems to enjoy giving them and uplifting other’s spirits. “Have a good day— _Dallon!_ ” Patrick calls, turning to a face a taller boy, who was jogging past them. He turns his head to face the pair, face breaking into a smile. Brendon watches silently.

“Patrick!” Dallon greets, sweeping Patrick into a hug. “How’s my favorite munchkin?” Patrick’s face barely reaches Dallon’s chest, but he hugs back with strength. Brendon notes that Dallon’s voice is pretty deep for, what he assumes, a sophomore. He could be wrong; he normally is, at least, according to his mother.

“Fabulous, as always, I assure you,” Patrick returns, smirking. He does a little half spin, flinging his bag and case around with him. “How’s my favorite tree?”

“Lanky, as always,” Dallon replies. He breaks his gaze away from Patrick and falls on Brendon’s half-shaking form. He’s rooted to the floor, unable to move away from the pair of friends and go get his schedule or just breathe. It’s not that he’s a generally anxious person—he’s not, not really—it’s just the first day of school and who doesn’t feel nervous?

“Kid, kid?” Brendon snaps back, blindingly aware that he had drifted off. “You okay?” Dallon asks, giving him a concerned look.

“Peachy,” he squeaks out, turning bright red. “I-I should go.” He gestures weakly to the front doors, which are still thrown wide open. People are still flooding the school, so he’s not worried about being late.

“This is Brendon,” Patrick introduces, throwing an arm awkwardly over Brendon’s shoulder, Brendon tries not to flinch at the contact, already jumping out of his skin. “He’s a freshman.”

“Ooh! A freshman!” Dallon says, a grin breaking out on his face.  It had a slightly predatory taste to it and Brendon shies away, still shaking like a leaf in a tornado. Dallon’s expression softens and he winks. “Sorry. Pleased to meet you; Dallon Weekes, at your service.” He holds out his hand and Brendon hesitantly takes it when Patrick pokes his side.

“B-Brendon Urie,” he whispers. Dallon grins a wide grin, one that Brendon is sure will split his face in two. Despite his terrifying appearance and overall outward personality, Brendon likes Dallon. He likes his penchant for winking occasionally, not at all in a leering or creepy way. It almost makes him feel safe, like Dallon will protect him as if he is his younger brother. Patrick, on the other hand, is something different. Something that Brendon can’t quite put into words. He just hopes that they’ll continue to speak to him.

Brendon glances at his watch and blanches. “I-I sho—I should go. Y-You know, the first day, and stuff…” he trails off, nervously glancing between the older boys. Dallon nods.

“Of course. Good luck, brownie.” Before Brendon has time to question the odd nickname (to be truthful, he has no clue how to deal with nicknames; how does one slip it into a conversation?), Dallon shoves him up the stairs and into the building ungracefully.

“I—” Brendon starts.

“—need to get a move on,” Patrick finishes, smirking. He pats Brendon on the back. “Go.”

“Thank you,” he says to Patrick before spinning on his heel and darting uncertainly into the atrium. The walls are high and covered in stone, the ceilings made of stained wood. To him, it seems to be more of a college than a high school, but who is he to judge? Behind him, he can hear Dallon laughing, presumably at something Patrick said. Brendon hopes that they’ll become good friends.

Streams of people pass him in no pattern, some chatting away like no one’s business, others shuffling around like packs of wolves. Brendon isn’t sure if he’s the only one alone in this entire school. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up at the sweet face of an upperclassman. Her wide, blue eyes sparkle down at him like a kaleidoscope.

“Do you need help?” she asks softly, removing her hand from his shoulder. “You look a bit lost.”

Brendon forgets how to speak. “I-I, uh, yes.” The upperclassman smiles.

“I’m Sarah,” she says, “and you are? I can help you find your schedule and get to your first class. Shame that they don’t allow all the little freshies a visit before the first day. I remember it being a nightmare to find all of my classes for a good 2 weeks. After, though,” she adds when she notices Brendon’s horrified face, “it gets better.”

“That’s what they keep saying,” Brendon mutters, biting his lip, hard, “but I’m not sure I believe it. I’m Brendon Urie.”

“Well, Brendon Urie,” Sarah says, blue eyes twinkling, “welcome. Let’s go get your schedule and I’ll show you around, alright?” Brendon nods. His eyes follow Sarah—a gorgeous girl, in his opinion—as she walks away. A senior, too.

“Come on,” she beckons. Brendon hurries to catch up, hands knotted in his bag’s straps. They fall into step together, shoes clicking against the tile floor. People’s voices fade in and out of Brendon’s ears as they walk over to the desk. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. He’s got it. _C’mon, Urie._

_“Now, kid, go get your schedule—through the doors and immediately to your right—and face the day head on. I know you’re gonna go far; I can feel it.”_

 

 

Brendon spends his lunch hour searching, in vain, for Patrick or Dallon. Really, anyone that will allow him to sit down and quietly eat his PB&J and carrots. Sure, his lunch is pretty much a 5-year-olds, but it’s what he enjoys, and he’s sure that no one will make of him for _that_ , in particular. They’ll most likely go with the easier, more hard-hitting things, like his nose (it dips just a half an inch too low on his face), or his too-wide hips. For a guy, at least. He knows that if he was born a girl he would’ve had the sought after lips and hips.

Alas.

He sighs and runs a shaky hand through his hair. His classes, while boring, seem to not be _too_ awful. Honors Geometry, Biology, Health, US History; not too bad for the first half of his day. All that is left is—he glances down at the schedule in his hands as he stands in the hallway just outside of the cafeteria—Honors English, a study period, P.E., and, the class he’s been waiting for: music. Just general music for his first year, but he knows that he’s placed in a class with mostly sophomores, as he tested into the class at his old school.

The bell rings as his stomach grumbles loudly. Oh, great, he didn’t get time to eat. Not that it really matters to him—the butterflies take refuge in his stomach, anxiety bubbling like boiling soup, and he feels almost full. Oh well, it’s enough for him to get through the day.

He thinks to the protein bar he has stashed in his bag, ready and waiting to be eaten in a pinch. If anything, he can try and sneak it during his designated “study” period. It’s not like he’s been given any homework, other than the obligatory “sign and return” syllabi. He’s sure he can't eat his sandwich in the library.

Brendon glances at his watch, which continues to tick loudly. The sounds of students rushing to class are beginning to fade, and he decides it’s probably best that he gets a move on. He doesn’t want to be late to class on his first day.

Patrick and Dallon are nowhere in sight.

 

 

Brendon forces breath into his tired lungs; in what school do they require you to run on your first day of school? Apparently his, with his demon gym teacher, Mrs. Scott. She’s ruthless, glaring at his classmates as they struggled to draw in a breath, the suicides proving to be a bit more difficult than he remembered.

A boy in his class―Ryan, he remembers vaguely from roll―jogs up behind him, dark brown hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. It has to be over 90 degrees outside. “You okay?” he asks, pushing up his hair so it forms careful spikes. Brendon nods, regretting the protein bar he had eaten right before this period. It churns in his stomach menacingly. “I’m Ryan,” the boy introduces, holding out his hand.

Brendon takes it. It’s sweaty, he notes, but he smiles nonetheless. “Brendon,” he says. “Are you a freshman?” It’s easy to talk to others his age, he decides, despite how nice Patrick had been to him this morning; he still hopes that they could become friends. Having a friend who’s older than him may help with his standing in the school―plus, he’ll know his way around.

“Unfortunately,” Ryan replies, dropping Brendon’s hand and walking in a slow circle, arms looped over his head. He’s still trying to catch his breath. He’s lean and small, smaller than Brendon.

“I am, too.” Brendon tries to keep his tone casual and light, bearing any real friendship with this kid.

Maybe they could just be Gym-friends? That’s how it worked at his old school―Brendon didn’t really have many of what he liked to call “at home” friends. Sure, he was rather popular and had many school friends, that didn’t mean that he would spill his deepest secrets to them. That’s just how it worked there. Here, though, Brendon is unsure. He doesn’t know the rules to this unfamiliar land. Hopefully, Ryan’s in the same boat.

“Are you new here?” Ryan asks. “I didn’t see you around the school at all last year.” Their teacher blows her whistle at them to get moving, and they slowly begin to amble around the track.

“Moved from Vegas,” Brendon says. He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and kicks a pebble ahead of him. It bounces on the synthetic rubber track, making small _plinking_ noises. He doesn't really like talking about home all that much; he misses the dry desert heat and blinding sun. Here, it’s too dark and cold. All of the time, though mainly at night.

“Really? That’s cool, man. Are there any cute gu— _girls_ there?” Brendon doesn't miss the stutter but decides not to note on it. He’s not one to push on someone’s personal life, especially when he’s had his dilemmas.

“I mean, aren’t there cute girls ones everywhere?” he asks nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I guess,” Ryan concedes. He doesn't meet Brendon’s eyes.

Brendon opens his mouth to try and change the subject when a sharp voice interrupts them.

“You two! Get running!” The bright sunlight makes it hard for Brendon to pick out his teacher’s form.

Ryan and Brendon exchange glances, rolling their eyes in unison. They pick up a slow jog to appease their demonic teacher. Brendon watches Ryan carefully; maybe this high school thing—at least making friends—won’t be so bad after all.  


 

Brendon clambers through the door to his music class, sweaty and out of breath. Of course, this was his class with the sophomores and here he was, late. A great first impression. He scans the class for any familiar faces and happens to fall on, lo and behold, the smiling faces of both Patrick and Dallon! He catches their eyes and grins brightly.

Patrick returns the smile and gestures to the empty seat on his left. Brendon slips behind the students waiting for their teacher to arrive and slides into the seat. He pushes his sweaty bangs out of his face and smiles again.

“Hi!” he greets, maybe a tad more excitedly than he should have. Patrick and Dallon exchange amused glances.

“Hi yourself, brownie,” Dallon says. He folds his leg over itself, casually leaning back in his plastic chair. It’s almost too small for him, even if he’s a sophomore. He’s probably the size of upperclassmen. “How’s your first day been?”

Brendon bites his lip. “Better than I imagined,” he concedes.

“I was the same,” Patrick says. “Terrified out of my mind, scared to death, but it just all… came together.”

“And you met me,” Dallon interjects,

“And I met you,” Patrick continues, rolling his eyes. “It’ll get better, sport. Just a roller coaster only goin’ up.”

“You know, you’re only a year older than me,” Brendon says carefully. “Both of you.”

“Freshies always seem so tiny, though. You included. It seems wrong to not baby you, really. You’ll see next year, I promise.” Patrick grins in a self-confident manner. Brendon’s heart skips a beat and he’s not sure why. He tries to ignore it.

“I’m taller than you,” Brendon points out.

“But I’m older,” Patrick returns. “Height is but a number.”

“I thought that’s what they said about age,” Dallon says, poking Patrick in the side, causing him to squeal loudly. His face turns red and he sinks down into his seat. “Aw, Stumpy, my darling munchkin, you’re embarrassed.”

“Shut the f—” Patrick begins.

“Nice words, Stumpy,” Dallon says to cut him off. “We have a tiny freshie’s ears to protect for big mean words.”

“Hypocrite,” Patrick mumbles and Dallon feigns offense.

“Me? A hypocrite? I’m sure you have got the wrong person, dear Stumpy, ‘for I am not the hypocrite you speak of.”

“No, but you're the irritating bastard I do,” Patrick mutters. Brendon stifles a laugh with his hand, amused by the banter the two boys are sharing. He hoped to have a friend like that someday.

Behind them, Brendon can hear the crisp clicking of heels on the tile flooring. He straightens his posture immediately, hoping he’s not called upon. It seems to be his lucky day, because: “Stumph, Weekes, now that you’ve had your weekly, uh, banter, can we get on with the class?” Their teacher’s voice has a hint of mirth in it, and Brendon smiles. He’s sure that he’s going to enjoy this class. Dallon and Patrick nod in unison. “Lovely,” she chirps. “Now that we have that out of the way, on to class. Icebreakers!”

The class, Brendon included, groans.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. It’s not like you can get out of it, anyway. Authority and all of that? Yeah, so everyone gather in a circle.” Brendon shoots Dallon and Patrick a look before maneuvering his way to the front of the room, the two other boys ambling behind him. He’s determined to make a good impression.

“This is dumb,” a boy in front of him mumbles. Brendon is put on edge around him; he throws off this vibe that unnerves him, makes him more anxious than he cares to admit. He moves to sit far, far, away from him when Patrick lays a gentle hand on Brendon’s shoulder, guiding him near to the boy.

“Wentz,” Patrick greets coolly.

“Stumph,” the boy—Wentz—replies, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Patrick sits one person away from him, the one person being Brendon. Brendon links his fingers together and studies the floor. Wentz says nothing more.

Their teacher stands in the center of their hastily formed circle. “Alright,” she claps her hands together, “this is how it’s going to work, children. You’re going to give us your name, age, instruments you play, and a random fact about you. I don’t care, as long as you keep it clean, alright?” The class murmurs their assent. “I’ll start. Hi, I’m Marissa Joyne, I’m 25, I play guitar and bass, and I love to skydive. Wentz, you begin.”

And so it goes. Brendon listens intently as his classmates introduce themselves. He learns that Wentz’s first name happens to be Pete, he’s a sophomore, plays bass, and loves to scream. A peculiar guy.

Brendon’s voice is quiet when he’s next to introduce himself, his heart pounding out of his chest. “I’m Brendon Urie, 14, I play a few instruments but I prefer piano or guitar, and I just moved here from Nevada.” He thinks it goes rather well, and Patrick gives him a smile and a thumbs up. Brendon feels warmth spread up to his cheeks.

Patrick also happens to play piano and guitar, and sings a little; Dallon’s very confident in his bass-playing abilities, throwing a hand over Patrick’s shoulders and proclaiming loudly that his “Little Stumpy is a genius on every instrument” and that he’s “Very proud of him.” Patrick’s face is bright red.

By the time the last kid—a girl with long, brown hair that hides half of her face—goes, it’s nearly time to go home. Brendon gathers his bag and coat, standing next to Dallon and Patrick as they chat. “Hey, Brendon,” Patrick says, garnering Brendon's attention.

“Yes?”

“What’s your number? You’re a pretty cool guy, especially for a freshman.” Brendon blushes and bites his lip.

“I… don’t have a phone,” he says hesitantly, face flaming in shame. He wants a phone badly, but his mom won't budge. Patrick doesn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, that’s okay. Do you have a home phone?” Brendon nods and relays the number, finishing as the bell tolls loudly. Dallon says his goodbyes, citing that he has to go catch his bus, and leaves the room first.

Pete Wentz, the emo kid, he remembers, shoulders Brendon on his way out, nearly knocking him over and onto the floor of the music room; Patrick glares at Pete’s retreating back. Patrick grabs Brendon's arm to steady him, his fingers like pokers on Brendon’s skin. He lets go of Brendon’s arm a second later, wringing his hands and sighing.

“Jerk,” he mutters.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brendon hurries to say. He doesn’t want to start anything to increase the tension between the two boys.

“I—yeah, I won’t. He just gets under my skin, sorry.” Brendon nods. He understands; some people do that to him, too. “Well,” Patrick says, picking at a string on his cardigan, “I should go.” Brendon notices that they are the only two in the room, the other kids having deserted the room ASAP. A blush grows on his cheeks.

“Me too,” he agrees. “Bye, Patrick.” He awkwardly waves to Patrick, gripping the straps of his bag tightly to his back, and half-jogs out of the room.

“Bye, Brendon,” Patrick calls to his retreating back. Brendon smiles and continues down the empty hallway.

A good first day, indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few months of Brendon’s freshman year fly by and, before he realizes it, it’s nearing the end of the year.

“Alright, class,” Miss Joyne announces one class near the middle of December, “it’s project time.” She waits the obligatory 10 seconds for the class to make their various moans and groans over the prospect of a project. Brendon sends a side glance at Patrick, who smiles and nods. “Now, now, it’ll be fun! Your project is to create a Christmas—uh, holiday song that shows your personality. _Or_ ,” she continues, “you can put together an already existing holiday song and sing and/or play it for the class. It’s up to you. You’re allowed to work with _up to_ 2 others, but working alone is alright too. I’m not sure why you would want to work alone, but, eh I won’t judge. You have the rest of this class and tomorrow’s class to finish. Guidelines are on the board and feel free to ask any questions if you feel so. Be free!” Brendon giggles and leans towards Patrick.

“We’re gonna have the best jingle, like, ever!” Brendon says excitedly. Patrick’s eyes light up in amusement and Brendon feels accomplished. His goal, many days, is to somehow amuse Patrick.

“You bet,” Patrick agrees, and unsticks himself from the seat. “I’ll grab the paper.” He gestures to the front of the classroom, where many of the students are gathered around a small pile of paper, waiting impatiently for their turn. Brendon nods and watches Patrick’s retreating back. There’s a knit cap snugly over his ears and he’s wearing the cardigan that Brendon knows he wore on the first day of school. Brendon shifts on the black plastic chair beneath him.

Patrick returns a moment later, paper firmly in his hands. “Alright,” he says, “the only rule is that it has it has to be at least 30 seconds of an original or a minute if using an already-written song.” Brendon rubs his hands together. “Sucks that Dallon isn’t here.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, though he doesn’t feel too bad, as he gets to spend more time practically alone with Patrick. “Sucks. He’s probably living it up in Hawaii, though, ‘specially this time of year.” Brendon longs for the warmth of the Nevada sun most days, still, even if he’s been away for a few months. The sub-freezing days and bitterly whipping winds make him want to never leave the house, ever. Patrick laughs at him each time he laments.

“Still cold?” Patrick asks, lifting his eyebrow, a smirk on his face. Brendon mock-shivers.

“Always,” he replies, “and don’t make fun of me!”

“Your blood runs thin,” Patrick says. He tugs the hat further over his ears.

“Your blood runs thick with love for me,” Brendon retorts, placing a hand on his hip, cocking it slightly. Patrick rolls his eyes and chuckles.

“You keep dreaming, kid,” Patrick jokes, “but we should get working on this.” He shoots a glance to Pete Wentz, who’s hunched over a desk, scribbling with a beat up pen. Gabe Saporta, a junior, sits next to him, looking bored. Brendon accidentally meets Gabe’s eyes, blushing as the older boy winks at him. He returns his gaze to Patrick.

“Okay,” Brendon says and grins again. “I feel like we should…"  


 

Brendon’s fingers fly over the small keyboard, striking each key with ease. His eyes are shut, a relaxed expression on his face, and he lets the music flow over him in comforting waves. Patrick sits behind him, legs crossed on the extra piano bench. The classroom is empty, the school day being over and the other students having deserted it. Patrick and Brendon are the only two left, it seems. Maybe the only two left in the world.

He finishes with a flourish and Patrick claps enthusiastically. Brendon lets his eyes open, focusing on the wall in front of him and, after turning around, Patrick’s lovely face. “Brendon,” Patrick enthuses, “that’s _amazing_! We’re gonna get an A for sure!”

A blush decorates Brendon’s cheeks. “Thank you,” he says shyly.

Patrick leans back on the bench, hands gripping the bottom tightly to keep him steady. He rocks back and forth, sighing happily. “You’re a genius! Where have you been all of my life? Your composing skills…” he trails off.

It seems as if the ability to compose is something that Patrick admires; not that Brendon hasn’t noticed that before. He notices a lot about Patrick, like the way he pushes his hair out of his face without thought when he’s writing, or how he twirls his pen (always of blue ink) when he speaks to Brendon. Even how Patrick always bites his lip when he’s around Brendon; Brendon doesn’t get that about him, and he wonders if it’s something about him. He tries not to give it much thought.

Brendon smirks, deciding to tease Patrick, “In my bed, waiting for you.” He winks as Patrick roars with laughter, breaking his earlier dreamy expression. “I’m sorry.”

“Brendon,” Patrick gasps, while still laughing, “why?” Brendon says nothing as he tries to fight a blush, only shaking his head. “C’mon, we should go. My mom can drive you home.” Patrick holds out his hand in front of Brendon, who grabs it without hesitation. Patrick tugs him out of the room, calling out to their teacher about them leaving, and shuts the door behind him. “Let’s go.”

Patrick doesn’t drop their hands and Brendon says nothing. If anything, he assumes it what good friends do. Or, at least, what Patrick does. He and Dallon seem close and probably do the same. He doesn’t think about it.

 

 

The next day, Brendon and Patrick prepare to perform their piece. The majority of it is Brendon’s piano playing, with some additional guitar provided by Patrick, but they added some harmonies and bits and pieces of more common songs. Brendon thinks it’s a masterpiece, smiling with boyish glee. Nerves thrum through him in waves as he awaits their turn. Patrick sits to his right, fingers dancing over his jean-clad thigh.

Pete Wentz and Gabe Saporta are the group currently up. It’s obvious that Pete took charge of the work, given the bored and slightly angry look on Gabe’s face. Gabe towers over Pete as Pete reads some angsty-sounding poetry. Brendon winces at the harsh words that Pete forms and at the pain on his face. He tries to hide it, but isn’t too successful. Brendon wonders what the lyrics are based on.

 

_One awkward silence_

_And two hopes you cry yourself to sleep_

_Staying up, waiting by the phone_

_And all I want this year is for you to dedicate your last breath to me_

_Before you bury yourself alive_

 

Brendon tries to meet Patrick’s eyes, flashing a ‘ _What’s he on about_?’ message, but Patrick’s gaze is focused elsewhere, drifting off towards the wide window on the far wall of the room. Brendon idly wonders what Patrick is thinking about; probably something deep, given the spaced-out look in his eyes and the dreamy expression on his face.

Soon enough, Pete and Gabe (well, mostly Pete) finish their performance to splattered applause. Pete gives a mock bow, slapping Gabe on the back and moving him to their seats. Their teacher stands up and directs, “Urie and Stumph, you’re next.”

Brendon pokes Patrick’s side. “Patrick,” he whispers, “we’re up.” His stomach flips nervously as he speaks and he clambers to his feet. Patrick stands up a second later, smiling at him.

“I sort of have stage fright,” Patrick mumbles in his ear as they make their way to the back of the room to grab their instruments. Brendon meets his eyes and swallows back his agreeance of fright. He knows that he has to be confident for the both of them, even if he doesn’t feel it.

“I’ll be confident for the both of us,” Brendon says, “but don’t worry. You’re amazing.” He grabs the keyboard as Patrick procures the guitar, slinging it over his shoulders.

Patrick exhales and even Brendon can hear its shakiness. “If you say so.” Brendon elbows Patrick’s side.

“Don’t be silly. Now, let’s go rock their world.” Swallowing the butterflies that are plaguing his stomach, Brendon struts up to the front of the room and grins. “This is a mostly original, rockin’ piece that I and the Mr. Patrick Stumph over there wrote. It will rock your socks!” Patrick rolls his eyes and Brendon grins brightly at him, eyes sparkling.

“You’re a dork,” Patrick mouths at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Brendon’s not sure what he’s doing. He’s crouched under the bleachers, freezing his butt off in the middle of January with his only friend other than Patrick or Dallon. His breath makes white puffs in front of his face. In front of him, also crouching, sits Ryan Ross.

“Are you sure we’re not going to get caught?” Brendon whispers, nervously glancing over his shoulder.

Ryan laughs. “Don’t worry, Bren.” Brendon, not reassured, bites his lip again. “Trust me,” Ryan says. And Brendon does; the two of them have bonded in the many hours in their Gym class, lamenting over the stupidity of having it _every_ day. He trusts Ryan, more than he ever thought he would for a kid his age. They are similar, Brendon realizes, and both have this air of something being… different about them. Brendon’s not sure what it is.

Ryan is the boy with the dancing gorgeous brown eyes, the lazy tossing of his hair, the casual smile that graces his face whenever Brendon makes a stupid joke. Brendon feels something similar to him as he does to Patrick, but maybe a bit weaker. He’s not sure exactly what it is, but he decides that he likes it.

“If we get in trouble, it’s your fault,” Brendon says, crossing his arms and knitting his eyebrows.

“Place all your blame on me,” Ryan agrees, and, in a fluid motion, scoots closer to Brendon. “Sorry, I’m cold.”

“Me too,” Brendon says, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to absorb as much of his body heat as he can manage.

Ryan is quiet for a moment. “Here,” he says suddenly, “sit next to me. We can leech off of each other’s heat.” Ryan pats the square of cold cement right next to him, a foot or so away from Brendon’s shivering body.

“You’re so skinny,” Brendon complains. “You’ll take all of the heat!” Nonetheless, he moves as quick as possible to sit directly next to Ryan, who wraps his arms around Brendon. He doesn’t find this weird, far from it, but knows that if any of the jocks in their class saw them, they would be teased relentlessly.

“See, now we’re both warm,” Ryan says, smiling at Brendon. Brendon nods and places his head on Ryan’s shoulder, suddenly sleepy. The warmth that Ryan emits despite his skinniness is intoxicating, the smell of cough mingling with his breath. Brendon has never been closer to anyone outside of his family as he is to Ryan. He decides he likes it, shutting his eyes. “Brendon?” Ryan asks after a minute. Brendon’s eyes shoot open.

“Yes?”

A beat of silence. “Can I… ask you something?” Brendon swallows nervously. That’s never a good sign, from Brendon’s experience.

“You just did.” Ryan smacks Brendon’s shoulder and laughs.

“ _Another_ question, after this?”  

“Go ahead, Ry,” Brendon says. He holds his breath, waiting for Ryan’s response.

“You promise not to freak out?” Ryan sounds hesitant, something that he is usually not. Brendon feels nervous that something is horribly wrong, but knows that that’s probably not it. Ryan would’ve told him at the beginning of class, right? _Oh, God, what if he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore_? Brendon thinks. He shuts his eyes tightly. “Brendon?”

“I won’t,” Brendon promises and opens his eyes again. He feels Ryan relax before gently turning Brendon to face him. Brendon meets Ryan’s nervous eyes.

“I… _wanttokissyou_ ,” Ryan says quickly. Brendon raises an eyebrow; whatever Ryan said, he assumes it was good.

“Can you repeat that?” he asks. Ryan nods, a blush spreading over his pale cheeks. His freckles, as few as they are, stick out starkly over his skin.

“I want to kiss you,” Ryan enunciates before averting his gaze from Brendon’s, face burning. Brendon feels as if the all of the breath is knocked out of his lungs; he didn’t think… no… did Ryan…? “Brendon, please say something.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, for lack of knowing how to respond. His mind is running overdrive—he has never had to deal with romantic feelings before! What does he say? Does he tell Ryan that he doesn’t mind? _Is he even gay?_ Obviously so, if he’s even debating it.

“Okay?” Ryan sits stock-still, seemingly offended at Brendon’s lack of reaction. Brendon clears his throat.

“Y-You can,” his voice warbles, “I don’t care. Y-You can kiss me, i-if you r-really want to.” Brendon shuts his eyes tight, sucking in a shaky breath. Is that the right thing to stay? He tries, desperately, to think of what Patrick would say, if he was there. Brendon comes up blank.

Ryan freezes. “Really?” he asks, hopeful.  Brendon nods without thinking, his heart thumping and blood rushing in his ears.

“Really,” Brendon says with a smile. Ryan exhales shakily and turns so he’s facing Brendon straight on. He places his hand over Brendon’s shoulders and neck, pulling him ever-so-closer, until their lips are almost touching. The coffee smell is stronger from this position, Brendon notes.

In the shade of the bleachers, hidden from the icy wind and their nosy classmates, Brendon has his first kiss. And with a boy, more so! His parents will revolt if they ever find out.

Ryan’s lips are dry and chapped against his, tasting of sweet coffee and mint gym. Their noses brush awkwardly and Brendon laughs. “I’ve never done this before,” Brendon admits, shifting on the cold ground.

“Neither have I,” Ryan says, and connects their lips again for a few seconds. “But I like it.”

Brendon smiles against Ryan’s lips. “I do too. I never knew what all of the rage was about kissing until now. I see what they mean.”

“You do?” Ryan asks bashfully, his eyes wide and vulnerable. With as much romanticism as a 14-year-old boy can manage, Brendon kisses Ryan again. He never thought that this day could have gotten to this point, let alone him allowing himself to kiss Ryan without worry.

Until then, he didn't even think that he could like boys. Or, maybe, someone else has made him feel that way, Brendon’s just too innocent to realize it.

“Brendon?” Ryan asks.

“Yes?” Brendon repeats for what seems to be the 5th time in these past few minutes.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” Brendon pauses, thinking of what Patrick will say. Or, what he would tell Brendon to say. Probably yes, he decides. He can almost imagine the look on Patrick’s face when he tells him, he'll be so happy for him! His blue eyes will sparkle in the way Brendon loves...

“Yes,” Brendon says. Ryan squeals—squeals, yes—and hugs Brendon tightly, digging his nose into his neck and sighing deeply. They stay there until the bell rings, and Ryan carefully unsticks himself from Brendon. Brendon almost completely forgot about the cold until Ryan’s pulling him to his feet and he feels the wind biting at his cheek.

Tentatively, Ryan grabs his hand, shooting him an, “ _Is this okay?_ ” look and pulls him towards the school. Together, they step out into the windows and strolls towards the school with the others in their class. If they notice their clasped hands, half-hidden by the coat Brendon’s wearing, they say nothing.

  


Brendon's smile is as bright as it was when Ryan had kissed him on the cheek minutes before, when they had parted ways for class. A blush is spread over his cheeks and he feels like a new person. Patrick comments on it when he slides into his chair; Dallon just looks amused.

“What happened with you? Someone buy you chocolates or something?” Patrick asks, smirking. He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands over the back of his head.

“No, but thanks for making me hungry,” Brendon replies. The entire walk up to the music class on the 2nd floor was spent thinking about how he was going to tell Patrick (and Dallon, by extension). He was thrumming with excitement, but now he’s drained. The idea of telling Patrick and Dallon doesn't seem so appealing now; what if they are homophobic? (He doubts it, though it’s still a possibility.)

There seems to be another reason why he doesn't want to tell them, given that he wasn’t sure that he liked guys until last period, but he can't put his finger on it. Something about Patrick…

“Brendon? Brownie!” Dallon’s snapping in front of his face, shaking him out of his memory. The bell rings before Brendon has a chance to respond.

“Later,” Patrick mouths. Brendon nods despite himself.

  


“Ryan kissed me,” Brendon whispers a few minutes later, when their teacher gives them half the class to mess around on the instruments. He feels his face turn bright red at Dallon’s smirk and Patrick’s...sad expression? He quickly covers it up, but Brendon catches the remnants of a frown.

“I knew you liked guys,” Dallon says. “You owe me a 20, Patrick.” He glances over at Patrick before seemingly realizing something and deflating slightly. “You can give it to me after school.” He elbows Patrick’s soft side.

“Congrats, man,” Patrick says. He doesn't sound all that congratulatory and Brendon’s confused why but doesn't press.

“You guys bet that I liked guys? I didn't even realize that I did!” Dallon and Patrick exchange shocked glances.

“It was pretty obvious,” Dallon explains, “not in a bad way, though! Just the l—” Dallon’s expression turns pained as Patrick kicks him in the shins, hard. “ _Ouch! Patrick!_ But, yeah,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Oh,” Brendon says. “I didn’t realize…” He adjusts his glasses. He’s just the dorky kid with bad hair; is it obvious that he likes guys? Is there a glow about him now that screams “I’ve kissed a guy and I liked it!” He voices that sentiment to Dallon and Patrick.

Dallon laughs. “No, kid,” he says. Even if he’s not quite a year older than Brendon, he still refuses to drop the “kid”. It doesn't annoy Brendon as much as he thought it would—it makes him feel nice, like he has an older brother that actually cares about him. “Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause he also, uh, asked me out,” he mumbles, averting his eyes to focus on the carpet.

Dallon makes a noise that resembles a cat being stepped on and a valley girl buying a new pair of sunglasses. He claps his hands loudly; it's obvious he’s trying to distract Brendon from Patrick, who’s only gotten more downtrodden with each passing second. Brendon wonders why but tries to ignore it in favor of making sure Dallon doesn't hyperventilate. He can talk with Patrick later.

“Did you say yes? Aw, I love little freshman romance! I want to chaperone all of your dates!”

“I swear to _God_ , Dallon,” Brendon says, “but, yes, I did say yes. You’re like a teenage girl.”

“Because I know that Ross, and he looks _adorable_ with you!” Dallon’s blue eyes, different from Patrick’s, light up. Brendon never expected Dallon to act all excited about this; to be honest, he thought Patrick would, but, well, he’s wrong. Patrick’s bent into himself on his chair, hands locked in front of his knees.

“So adorable,” Patrick mutters into his legs.

“Don’t worry, Patrick, I still love you the most,” Brendon says, placing a finger under Patrick’s chin and lifting it to meet his gaze. Patrick breaks into a tentative grin.

“I love you too, Bren,” Patrick says.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m gay,” Patrick says. They’re shuffled in the corner of the music room, hidden away from their loud classmates under some desks. Their teacher doesn’t mind, only checking on them occasionally. Brendon’s dog-tired from running the pacer in Gym during his last period and his eyes are drooping. Once the words leave Patrick’s mouth, Brendon’s eyes flutter open.

“Well, congrats, ‘Trick,” Brendon replies, smiling, Dallon nods in assent, but says nothing, a smile pulling at his lips. Maybe he already knew? Brendon’s not sure and wonders why Patrick would tell Dallon before him. He then realizes that Dallon and Patrick have been friends since their freshman year, and they’ve only known Brendon since September, it being March now.

Patrick shoots him an unreadable look before melting into a relieved grin. He sighs. “Thanks… it feels good to get that off of my chest, you know?” And Brendon does; he assumes it feels the same for Patrick as it did when Brendon told the two of them about Ryan. Speaking of Ryan, they’re going strong and have been for almost a month. They’ve gone to the movies a few times (“as friends”, to his parents), with Dallon not breaking his promise and chaperoning. It’s nice, Brendon decides, to date someone.

“I understand,” Brendon says. He opens his arms up and gestures for a hug from Patrick. Patrick shuffles as best he can under the desks—Brendon wonders just how comfortable it is for Dallon, who’s nearing 6 feet tall—and launches himself into a tight hug with Brendon. Brendon rubs Patrick’s back, rocking them gently. Patrick’s a few inches shorter than Brendon and his head fits very nicely underneath Brendon’s chin and in the crook of his neck.

Ryan, thankfully, understands that Patrick and Brendon are both very touchy people, and doesn’t get jealous of them hugging almost constantly. Brendon makes sure to give time a lot of hugs to make up for it.

“Munchkin, I know you’re gay and Brendon also happens to favor the Men, but you don’t have to be gay with Brownie, y’know? You’re leaving me out,” Dallon adds, his tone amused. Brendon and Patrick spring apart, red-faced, and in tandem, fling themselves to hug Dallon. His laugh echoes from the enclosed space and out into the class. They don’t care that people can hear them giggling like teenage girls; they’re lost in their own world.

Brendon thinks that maybe he’s found his place in the world.

 

* * *

 

 

“I wonder why Patrick’s late,” Brendon wonders aloud, twisting his pencil between his fingers. He glances over at Dallon, who shrugs despondently. The bell is about to ring, Brendon guesses, and Patrick isn’t there, the spot to his right vacated. It’s almost sad—and worrying, since Patrick _never_ misses school, at least for as long as Brendon’s known him. Brendon sinks into his seat. “D’you know if he’s here?”

Dallon nods. “I saw him in Algebra 2 this morning, and again at lunch. Not sure why he’s late.” Brendon glances at the open door across the room and checks his watch. 30 seconds. He folds his hands over his lap and taps his toes anxiously.

Ryan tells him that he worries too much about Patrick, but he feels it’s due point; what if he’s sick? Or hurt? Or sad? Brendon has to help him! He tries to explain it to Ryan, who, bless his soul, tries to understand but doesn’t quite get it. Brendon hopes he will; they’re the two most important people (his age) in his life currently.

The bell rings. Brendon’s head lifts up to watch as the door begins to shut. He clenches his teeth, and, once the doors are shut, relaxes into his seat. Brendon focuses his attention on Miss Joyne instead of the door, trying to distract himself. _Patrick’s okay,_ he reassures himself. _Chill out_.

He’s not sure why he’s reacting so strongly. It’s just Patrick, but maybe that’s the issue. It is Patrick, his first true friend in this new area; the guy who didn’t feel he was too cool to help a dorky freshman on the first day. The guy who lets Brendon ramble on and on about his day, rather than snapping at him to shut up like any other older kid would.

Each time Brendon attempts to make a friend outside of Dallon, Patrick, or his boyfriend, it ends awkwardly when he won’t shut up about some funny thing Patrick said, or did, or how talented Patrick is, or _Patrick… Patrick… Patrick_ . Therefore, he’s given up on it. He has all he needs; a boy his age, an older brother figure, and _Patrick._

His eyes move from the teacher to a sudden movement directly to her left. The door swings open, revealing a satisfied-looking Pete Wentz. He swaggers into the room, strutting past the teacher and the front of the room, taking his seat with a grin. Brendon looks at him, confused. What happened? Pete meets his eyes, making Brendon’s heart thud in fear, and winks. _What?_

Brendon gets his answer a minute or so later when the door opens again. This time, it’s Patrick in the doorway! Brendon refrains from jumping up and hugging the life out of the older boy from he sees the look on Patrick face; it clearly screams “Don’t bring attention to me.” Brendon nods.

Patrick makes his way over at the pace of a snail, before finally sliding into his seat. His arm brushes Brendon’s backpack, and he winces. Brendon raises an eyebrow, worried, and shoots Patrick a confused look. “I’m fine,” Patrick mouths. Dallon, from behind Patrick, meets Brendon’s gaze and shakes his head. Brendon can tell that Dallon’s confused as well, though he hides it better than Brendon can ever hope to. He knows that Dallon realizes that Patrick is in fact, not fine, but doesn’t push it.

“Okay,” Brendon mouths. He makes sure his body language reads, ‘We’re going to talk later.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Patrick nod reluctantly.

 

 

Later, Brendon confronts Patrick head on, once their teacher has released them for free work. “What happened?” he asks. Patrick rubs his arm, shooting what he thinks to be a secret glance at Pete Wentz, who’s laughing loudly with Gabe Saporta.

“Nothing,” Patrick replies unconvincingly. “I’m fine, really.” He captures his lip with his white teeth, rolling over it with nerves. Brendon watches him closely without realizing it, only snapping out of his daze when Dallon speaks for the first time.

“Bull, Patrick,” he says. “We’re your friends, you can tell us, we won’t judge. What’s up?” Patrick shakes his head. “Patrick,” Dallon warns.

“It’s nothing,” Patrick says, harsher than before. “Just leave me alone!” He pulls himself to his feet and stumbles over to the teacher, asking for something. Moments later, he leaves the room. Brendon and Dallon exchange worried glances.

“Well, should we—?” Dallon begins, looking over at the door.

“—go after Patrick? Of course,” Brendon says, standing up and stretching. He strides over to Miss Joyne, and asks her where Patrick went.

“Mr. Stumph? Oh, the restroom,” she says and pauses to scribble something down on a worksheet. “I’m assuming you and Mr. Weekes want to go as well? Mr. Stumph seemed rather… distressed.” Brendon peers over to Wentz, who has busied himself with butchering the piano.

“Yes,” Brendon agrees. “May we?” Miss Joyne lifts her head, meeting Brendon’s wide, pleading eyes. Brendon can see her resolve fading.

“Fine,” she says after a minute. “Don’t take too long and make sure to write a pass, alright?” Brendon nods quickly and darts back over to Dallon, who’s casually leaning back on his chair, scribbling on a sheet of paper.

“A pass,” he says in way of an explanation. Hurriedly, he gets it signed, and Brendon and he slip out of the room, pretty much unnoticed to the rest of the class.Their footsteps echo down the tiled floor as the speed walk to the nearest bathroom, saying nothing. Brendon tries to calm his breathing because he knows that Patrick will be okay and it’s nothing that they can’t get through. “Chill out, Brownie,” Dallon says as they stand in front of the restroom door.

“I’m trying,” Brendon insists, wiping off his palms before moving to open the bathroom. Inside, faintly, he can hear what he deems to be sniffles and not normal bathroom sounds. “Sorry.” The door squeaks as it opens, and Brendon flinches.

“H-Hello?” Patrick’s voice, quiet in tone, sounds as loud as a jet engine to Brendon’s young ears.

“Patrick?” Dallon prompts, stepping further into the bathroom. Brendon scampers, following him.

“In here.” Patrick clears his throat and Brendon can hear him pull himself to his feet. He’s still hidden by a stall. “W-Why did you guys follow me? I said I was fine.”

“As if,” Dallon responds. “You’re just peachy, crying in the bathroom.” His voice softens as they near the stall Patrick has locked himself in. “Patrick, come out.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

“P-Patrick, please,” Brendon all but begs, sounding more distressed than even Patrick. He hates how young he sounds. “Tell us what’s wrong.” After a minute of silence, Brendon can hear the door unlock and Patrick’s tiny presence reveals itself. He looks pitiful. “Oh, Patrick,” Brendon says, and rushes forward, swooping Patrick into a tight hug, “what happened?”

“It’s stupid,” Patrick mumbles into Brendon’s shoulder.

“Tell us,” Dallon presses. Brendon can feel Patrick relent, sinking into Brendon’s arms. He refrains from staggering, Patrick’s weight pressing into his spaghetti-like arms. Holding his breath, Brendon keeps Patrick steady.

“F-Fine,” he stutters. “It’s just Wentz. He probably heard me saying that I was gay, and has decided to tease me about it. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Dallon straightens. “I’m going to go talk to him.” He moves to leave the room; Brendon can see a fire burning in his eyes and nods. Dallon can take care of him.

“Don’t,” Patrick exclaims. “It’ll make it worse!” He pulls himself out of Brendon’s loving hug and stands up straight, hands on his hips. He looks every bit of his 5 foot 4 height and seems to intimidate even Dallon.

“Patrick—” Dallon starts.

“Don’t,” Patrick repeats, interrupting Dallon. “Please.” He sags into Brendon’s side, flinging an arm over his shoulder.

Dallon’s jaw clenches. “Fine,” he spits out. “Fine. I won’t do anything. Fine. Just answer this one question: has he hurt you?”

Patrick sighs. “Bruises, light,” he says, before continuing, “Let’s go back to class, alright? I told you.” Reluctantly, Dallon nods, though he doesn’t look happy about it. Brendon says nothing, his mind whirling. Technically, he only told Dallon not to do anything, leaving him free to protect Patrick. Yes, yes. Maybe, he can get Ryan to help him…

Pete Wentz, here you come.

 

Brendon cradles his family’s phone close to his ear, whispering into it. “We’ve gotta confront Wentz,” he says empathetically.

_“I don’t know, Bren. He’s a sophomore.”_

Brendon scoffs. “And? I’m friends with two sophomores. Plus, he’s shorter than the both of us. We’re just gonna talk to him, that’s it. I want to protect Patrick; the look on his face…” he trails off and twirls the cord of his sweatshirt around his finger. He’s laying on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest, head on his backpack.

 _“Don’t you think Patrick can handle it for himself?”_ Ryan sounds tired and annoyed with him, but Brendon presses on. He has to do this for Patrick.

“Yes, but I want to do this for him. He took me under his wing and made sure my first day got off on the right foot. Please, Ryan?” Even though they are speaking over the phone, Brendon widens his eyes and bats his eyelashes.

“...” He can tell that Ryan is thinking it over.

“Please?” Brendon tries again to break the silence.

Ryan sighs. _“Fine. What do you want to do? Confront him in the cafeteria?”_ Brendon only smiles, not saying anything. “ _You’re kidding me, you actually plan to do that!?”_

“Yes…?” Brendon says, sounding bashful. “It’s my best plan. Plus, he won’t try anything in public! It’s a great idea!” He hears one of his siblings pass the door to his room and he quiets down, not wanting them to know what he’s talking about. _That_ wouldn’t be good.

“ _I’m not sure_.”

“Please, Ry?” Brendon begs.

“ _You seem to like this Patrick—_ ” Ryan begins.

“He’s my best friend,” Brendon says proudly. “But I still only want to date you, Ryan, don’t worry.” He doesn’t know why Ryan always seems jealous over Patrick; Brendon’s dating him, not Patrick. Patrick and he are just friends! Good friends, but friends nonetheless.

_“Like I said, you seem to really like him, so fine. I’ll do it for you. If we get in trouble, though, I’m blaming it all on you.”_

“Thank you, babe! Thank you so much! I hope that Wentz will stop bothering Patrick now!” Brendon enthuses. “He’ll never realize that we know how he’s treating Patrick and that it’s not okay.”

Ryan laughs. “ _Of course, Bren, of course. Alright, I have to go, Dad’s home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”_

“Of course. Talk to you tomorrow, Ry.”

“ _Bye, Bren. Love ya._ ” Brendon’s breath hitches.

“You too,” he says finally. He can’t seem to get the words out, nor form the motions necessary for a “Love you, too”. It’s weird, he decides, since it’s so easy to say it to Patrick, but not his boyfriend of 5 months. Brendon lays the phone down on the bed and sighs, covering his eyes. He tries not to think too hard about it, choosing to focus on the situation at hand: what is he going to say to Pete?

More importantly, how is Patrick going to react?

  


“You did _what_?” Patrick all but yells when Brendon hesitantly admits to him what Ryan and he did earlier that day.

“We told him off,” Brendon repeats, shrinking further into his chair. “It was my idea and I just wanted to pr— _help_ you. Please don’t be mad! I’m so sorry. I thought it was a good idea.”

“I told you that it was fine!” Patrick whisper-screams, leaning down towards where Brendon is sat. Dallon isn’t there, citing a dentist appointment and leaving school early. Brendon envies him; he never thought of a day where he wouldn’t want to hang out with Patrick. This is one of them.

“You obviously weren’t!” Brendon replies heatedly, crossing his hands over his chest. “I just wanted to help, Patrick. I’m sorry.” He glances over to where Pete Wentz happens to not be glaring at them, rather looking speculative. Brendon expected him to be pissed, but it’s obvious that he isn’t, which confuses him?

“You told him that he shouldn’t bother me anymore just because I’m your friend, Brendon, and that you’ll beat him up if he does. Brendon, he can beat you to a pulp!” Brendon puts on an offended look; in what world could Pete Wentz, a few inches shorter than him, beat him up?

“I’ll be fine,” Brendon insists. “I don’t think he’ll be bothering you anymore. It’s so not cool to pick on someone because of their sexuality.”

“I had it under control!” Patrick continues on with the obvious lie. No, of course, he didn’t have it under control! Pete made him late for class for like the first time, ever. Brendon can’t believe that Patrick won’t give up on this.

“Stop lying,” Brendon whines.

“I had it under control,” Patrick repeats, weaker this time, and Brendon knows he has won. “You probably made it worse, see—!” He stops and Brendon looks at him curiously. Patrick’s standing up now, waving his hands around like no one’s business, talking in the way he always does. It's cute, Brendon decides, but this isn't the time to think about it. Without warning, his face goes a weird white-grey color, like old oatmeal. His lips form a thin line.

“Patrick?” Brendon tries to keep his tone cautious, gently prodding Patrick into responding, but he doesn't. Patrick’s gaze is no longer focused on him, rather right above his head, staring at a newcomer. Brendon holds his breath.

“Wentz,” Patrick greets coolly, messing with a string on his hoodie. Brendon’s head shoots up, eyes wide. He gives Patrick a “deer-in-headlights” look. _Pete?!_

“Stumph,” Brendon hears Wentz return. It doesn't have a malicious edge to it like Brendon would expect him to. Rather, it sounds pleasant, or, at least, neutral. Brendon then feels a hand clap down on his shoulder, startling a squeak out of him. “This kid,” Pete says, “has some spunk. Keep him, Stumph. You need it.”

Patrick inclines his head and sighs. “Why are you over here?”

Brendon can feel Pete’s whole demeanor shift. The hand slides off of his shoulder. “To apologize,” he says curtly. “This kid gave me a bit to think about.”

“And…?” Patrick says. Brendon shifts his expression to say I told you so, and Patrick glares at him.

“I’m sorry,” Pete finishes. At Patrick's pointed glance—Brendon notes that he seems to have gained some confidence, at least when it comes to Pete—he continues, “I’m sorry for making fun of you. To be honest— _completely_ —I’m not sure why I did… since I’m, well,” he coughs, “bisexual.” Patrick lifts an eyebrow; his face doesn't outwardly show it, but Brendon can see the surprise written in his eyes.

“Oh really?” Patrick manages. Brendon keeps his gaze trained to study Patrick’s face, rather than turning in his seat to face Pete. He doesn't want to, knowing that he basically intimidated (he likes to think) the older boy earlier.

“Yes,” Pete says. He sounds bitter. “It’s true. It was stupid of me to take out my own hate on another guy, so, sorry.” He pauses, sucking in a breath. Brendon threads his fingers together in his lap, stomach turning. The look on Patrick’s face says it all: this is not where he expects it to go. “I was wondering…” he trails off.

“Spit it out,” Patrick says. He sounds annoyed, though Brendon isn't sure with who.

“If you would like to go to a party. With me.” Pete says this all very quickly, words stumbling over each other. He’s nervous.

Brendon watches in silence as Patrick swallows heavily, throat muscles moving. A cold sweat has broken out, shining over his forehead. His eyes dart to meet Brendon’s, wide and unsure. Brendon isn't sure what to do either, so he shrugs. “Parties aren’t really my thing,” Patrick admits before gathering a more suspicious look. “Why are you asking me?”

“I wanted to make it up to you. Plus, I’m inviting a lot of people; it’s my end-of-the-year extravaganza,” Pete explains. Brendon still feels suspicious. “I was even going to invite this kid,” Pete clasps Brendon’s shoulder again, “if that’ll change your mind. I also wanted to ask you out. On a… date.”

This is happening too fast for Brendon, and, by the looks of it, Patrick too. Patrick’s mouth is half-open and Brendon can see the gears spinning in his head. “I…”

“You don’t have to,” Pete says quickly. “It doesn't even have to be a date. Just an apology. I think you're pretty cute.” Brendon, unbidden, feels a surge of jealousy. He clamps it down, intently staring at Patrick. His mind screams _Don’t say yes_! but he can see it already happening. A blush spreads across Patrick’s cheeks, but, for some reason, when he responds he’s staring straight at Brendon.

“Okay.” Brendon can imagine Pete’s face lighting up like a Christmas tree. Why is Patrick doing this? This is the kid who was practically bullying him! Brendon wants to voice this aloud but refrains from it.

“Really? To both things?” Pete adds hopefully.

After a second, Patrick replies, “Yes.”

And Brendon feels his stomach turn in on itself. He knows this isn’t good.

 

 

 _“We went out for coffee, Bden. That’s all. He’s really sweet, actually. Paid for my drink and all._ ” Brendon bites his lip and grows himself back on his bed. It’s the weekend of his birthday, and the last thing he wants to talk about is Patrick and Pete’s coffee date. Each word he speaks is discolored in an emotion he isn't used to.

“Are you sure? I don’t trust him,” Brendon replies, studying his ceiling. He hears Patrick huff. “Alright, fine, I’m sorry. Just remember, Stumph, we’re the same age now. You can’t pull the ‘I’m older than you’ card.”

_“Just for another week or so, then I’ll be 16.”_

“I can’t believe I’m friends with such an old man,” Brendon jokes, smiling to himself.

“Best _friends, damn straight. I’ll be beating you with my cane any day now,_ ” Patrick says.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there with you, yelling at those darn kids to get off the lawn!” Brendon enthuses, laughing. He can hear Patrick give a quick chuckle.

“ _You bet,_ ” Patrick replies, and they fall into a comfortable silence. Brendon doesn't think that it’s weird that they basically insinuated they will be living with each other —or at least be around each other—when they’re old. The only weirdness would come from then not being friends for even a year yet. “ _You know,_ ” Patrick begins.

“Yeah?”

“ _Do you think Pete and I are dating?_ ” Brendon bites back a sigh and feels his stomach flip.

“Do you want to be dating him?” Brendon asks patiently. He thinks to Ryan, who’s probably scribbling some pretentious line of poetry (which Brendon will proclaim as genius) into his favorite notebook, tongue poking through his teeth. He kind of wants to kiss him each time he sees his little pink tongue. Maybe Patrick needs someone who’s not in a relationship to kiss him. That someone shouldn't be Pete, Brendon thinks. But who?

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Patrick admits. “ _I_ _don’t know. Maybe I should give him a shot?"_

“Do you want to?” Brendon tries again.

“ _I… I think so?_ ” It comes out as more of a question than Brendon thinks would for someone who’s sure. “ _I’ll have to talk to him about it, I guess.”_

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. _Please, say no_ , Brendon thinks.

What is he getting himself into?

 

* * *

 

 

“I want to break up.” Water spews out of Brendon’s closed lips, wetting the front of his Gym uniform. His eyebrows knit together and he stares at Ryan apologetic face. It’s May now, the sun warming the Earth. Flowers a blooming around the track and the air smells sweet. Brendon loves the spring.

Except for now.

“Why?” he asks, scanning up and down Ryan’s form. The gym shorts hang off of his body, along with the shirt, making him seem smaller than he actually is. Brendon loves to hug Ryan; it feels like he’s protecting a baby bird or something, despite being 2 inches shorter than the boy. “Do you not—?”

“It’s not you,” Ryan explains. “I, just… uh. I feel I’m too young for this to go on any longer. I… love you, but I feel like we’re better off as friends.” Brendon’s having trouble comprehending the words marching out of Ryan’s pretty lips. Better off as friends? He’s not sure if he remembers how to be friends with Ryan. The hugs, kisses on the cheek, the exchanged glances.

“This is so sudden…?” Brendon almost feels relieved, he admits, but he feels his eyes burning around the edges. Over the last 6 months, Brendon’s feelings have only grown stronger for Ryan. He’s comfortable with him like only Patrick. “ _Why?”_

“We’re better off as friends, Bren,” Ryan says, tracing his tennis shoe clad-toe over the rubber track, almost bashfully. “I’m just—”

“—happier being single?” Brendon interrupts angrily. “Ry, just let me know if it's me, please. I— _We_ can still be friends, I swear.”

“It’s not you,” Ryan repeats and holds out a hand. Brendon's stomach does a flip, thinking he can never kiss Ryan again—the boy he had his first kiss with—but forces himself to not. He takes Ryan’s hand. “Friends?”

Brendon clears his throat. “Friends.”

  


“I know this wasn’t going to last,” Brendon sniffs. He wipes the corner of his eye and tries to ignore the looks that Patrick keeps not-so-secretly shooting over at Pete, who winks in return. Brendon bites his lip and tries not to feel hurt.

Dallon rubs the back of Brendon’s neck. “I know, Brownie, I’m sorry. He’s not the only fish in the sea.”

Playing with the threads on his shirt, Brendon sniffs again, leaning more heavily on Dallon’s wide chest. It’s strong and comforting, and Dallon smells good, like a warm musk. Patrick sits across the aisle, not paying attention to the two of them anymore, favoring to lift his eyebrows at Pete openly.

“Don’t worry about him,” Dallon mumbles in his ear. “He cares.” Brendon nods but doesn't believe it all that much. He feels another tear slide out the corner of his eye and rubs them again. It feels stupid, crying in class, but Brendon’s hurt. He never thought breaking up with someone would hurt so badly; it feels like a knife to his chest.

“I’m not sure anymore,” Brendon whispers. “He’s too caught up with _Pete_.” He rubs harder at his face even though he knows it's red enough as is.

“It’s okay, Brownie. I swear he cares. This is new for him,” Dallon explains, which Brendon knows. Even when he was dating ( _Was_ , he thinks despondently) Ryan, he always made time for Patrick. Always!

Brendon knows he shouldn't be this bitter, but he can’t help it. “You’re right,” Brendon says finally, laying his head more firmly to Dallon’s chest. They're in an awkward position, with two chairs stuck together in their “corner” of the room, Brendon laying on Dallon. People are glancing over at them, confused, though Brendon’s sure they are used to them all piling together.

Patrick grins at Pete, a light blush covering his pale cheeks. Brendon feels a surge of jealousy along with the dull throb of sadness. He keeps his mouth shut despite that.

Dallon pokes Brendon’s cheek. “C’mon, Brownie, smile,” he says. “It looks good on you.”

“That's really gay,” Brendon states plainly, though not that he cares all that much. Dallon’s becoming more of an older brother with each passing day.

“I know, enjoy it.” Brendon sighs and rolls his eyes, but lets a small smile work its way onto his lips. Dallon peaks around him to watch his face. “Good. Now, keep that up. You're young.”

Brendon sighs. “You're right,” he says again and shifts against Dallon. “You’re right.”

“When am I not?” Brendon laughs wetly.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Brendon, I need you to come to Pete’s party with me,”_ is the first thing Brendon hears when he answers the phone. It's Saturday morning, sticky-hot outside, and he just wants to go back to sleep.

“What? Patrick?” he replies, voice full of sleep.

“ _Yes._ ” Patrick sounds flustered. Ever since he started dating Pete Wentz, he’s not been calling Brendon as more. Of course, he still hangs out with him in class, though sometimes that doesn't feel like enough. Brendon tries not to feel jealous, but the look on Patrick’s face when he glances absentmindedly over at Pete makes his stomach turn. “ _I need you to go to Pete’s end of the year party with me.”_

“I’m not invited,” Brendon protests. He loves a good party, he admits, but one with Pete and Patrick being sickeningly sweet to each other all night might make him throw up. He loves Patrick, he does, but there's only so many times one can hear _babe_ and _sweetie_ in a sentence. He hopes that he and Ryan weren't like that.

Patrick scoffs. “ _Yeah, you are._ ”

“Even if I was,” Brendon says, “which I’m not, why would I want to go?” _And see you and your boyfriend be sickeningly sweet together_. He doesn’t understand! Pete was so mean to Patrick and now here they are, calling each other babe.

 _“Because you love me?_ ” Patrick asks hopefully. “ _A_ _nd, you are invited. Remember what Pete said the day he asked me out? You’re invited too._ ” Brendon sighs; he does remember that, unfortunately. There seems to be no way out of it.

“When is it? I have to study for my biology final.” A lie, Brendon knows, but it's viable. It’s almost finals week and Brendon’s feeling the stress. He’s a smart kid, a fact he knows, but he has to study hard. It seems to be impossible to maintain and As-and-Bs he strives for.

“ _Tomorrow night,”_ Patrick says sheepishly. “ _S_ _orry for dropping in so late; I’ve been busy myself.”_ Brendon fights to not roll his eyes. Busy with _Pete_.

“I know,” Brendon allows. “I just… parties aren’t my scene.”

“ _Brendon_ ,” Patrick says, “ _please?_ ” Brendon tries not to imagine it, but he can see Patrick’s eyes widening and him shooting the irresistible puppy-dog look. He can feel his resolve melting.

“Fine,” Brendon relents. “Fine. But you’re gonna have to get me a ride; there and home. Why do you want me to come so badly?” That’s really what’s plaguing him; why doesn't Patrick want him there so badly when he has his boyfriend to hang off of for the night.

“ _No reason in particular,_ ” Patrick says suspiciously.

“If you say so. You can always talk to me, you know,” Brendon probes, trying to get Patrick to speak about more of what's going on. This has peaked his interest and he leans onto his kitchen counter, pulling the phone more towards his ear.

“There isn't anything,” Patrick replies, sounding panicked. Brendon wonders what’s going on—is it between him and Pete? That would explain why Patrick wants him to go to the party; Brendon’s unsure.

“Alright, ‘Trick, whatever you say,” Brendon says lightly. He knows that Patrick will tell him eventually.

_“I’ll pick you up at 6, tomorrow. My mom can drive us.”_

“Alright,” Brendon says.

_Alright._

  


Brendon’s dozed off, fingers barely gripping his home phone as they dangle off the edge of his bed. It’s 5:50, and the warm summer air wafting through his house has caused him to feel sleepy, waiting for Patrick. Being asleep is better than being awake, as he is filled with bundles of nervous energy at the thought of the party. And dread, too. Seeing Patrick and Pete be all lovey-dovey might make him throw up.

Minutes pass until 6 PM, when he is awoken by the loud honking of a horn, followed by a “ _Patrick Martin Stumph!_ ” Brendon shakes awake, disoriented, and sprints out of the house, shouting a goodbye to whoever is there.

He stumbles out the front door and into the Stumph’s silver Ford. Patrick’s on the front seat, nervously crossing and uncrossing his hands, while his mom is next to him, smiling sweetly. “Hi, Brendon,” she greets.

“Hi, Mrs. Stumph,” Brendon says through a yawn. He runs his hand through his hair, only serving to make it even messier. “Hi, Patrick!”

“Hey, Bren.” He seems tired and more than a bit nervous. Brendon raises his eyebrow but says nothing. “Ready for the party?”

Brendon puts on a wide smile, albeit a bit fake. “You bet!” He rubs his eyes again before dropping the smile, sinking into the car seat.

He’s not sure where Pete lives—assumedly nearby—but it's obvious Mrs. Stumph does. She chatters away, taking all the right turns and not even paying attention to where she’s going. She knows the route. Brendon’s stomach fills with jealousy. Most likely, she checked for the directions 3 or 4 times on the short drive to Brendon’s house; Patrick does stuff like that, too. Like mother, like son.

“So, Brendon, how’s high school? Do you like the school?” Mrs. Stumph asks. Her strawberry blonde hair—just like Patrick’s, he notes—bounces in its short bob.

Brendon forces himself to nod. “I do, a lot, actually. Especially since I met Patrick.” He laughs and feels his cheeks turn red. The blazing afternoon sun burns through Brendon’s sight.

“I’m glad you like my son,” she says. Brendon catches her eye in the rearview mirror and she winks, causing him to laugh

“Mom, I’m in the car, too!” Patrick interjects, but Mrs. Stumph chatters along.

“Keep this boy, Patrick. I like him.”

“ _Mom!”_

  


When they pull up to Pete’s house minutes later, Brendon’s jaw drops. His house is _huge_! “Patrick, did you know how rich he is?” Brendon asks.

Patrick inclines his head and throws a hand around Brendon’s shoulders. “You haven’t even seen the inside!” he enthuses.

“I don’t have to,” Brendon replies dreamily, before snapping back to reality. This is Pete’s house, not some great guy. They're standing in the driveway of his house now and Patrick tugs at Brendon’s shirt.

“C’mon,” he says. Brendon just nods and allows himself to be pulled inside, where he finds the party in full swing. Patrick had told him the night before that it is a pool party, so most people—mainly upperclassmen and sophomores, Brendon realizes a tad nervously—are clad in bathing suits and bikinis.

Even if he doesn't like Pete, Brendon decides, he’s a smart man. Especially if he’s as bisexual as he says he is, since the girls look pretty great in their bikinis. Not the Brendon’s checking them out, or anything. Definitely not.

Once fully inside the house, Brendon asks, “Where to?” before realizing that there’s no Patrick next to him, only empty space. Patrick left him! Brendon spins around on his spot, nearly knocking over a pair of giggling girls who are heading to the pool. “Patrick?” Brendon calls. The music coming from God-knows-where makes it hard for him to hear.

He wonders if Dallon is here, but remembers that he’s babysitting some family member or other tonight, and had declined the invitation. Brendon wishes that he was here to keep him company, as he’s probably the only freshman there.

The hallway he’s in is dark so he has a difficult time making his way out of it. When he finally does, his spit into the midst of what seems to be an amazing party. People are splashing around in the pool, the music is loud, and Brendon is sure that there are some people making out in the corners of the large yard. Pete sure knows how to throw a party.

Brendon scans the yard, gaze slipping over what has to be 40 or 50 people, looking for anyone he recognizes. A guy here, a girl there, none that he knows well in anyway. Until, of course—

 _Patrick_ . Brendon takes a clear breath in what has to be 30 minutes of panicked running around. It’s dark outside, or getting to it, the sky brilliant colors, so it's difficult for Brendon to see Patrick’s face clearly. But, there he is, _sitting on Pete’s lap_.

Pete, the king of the party, is sitting on a comfortable looking beach chair, his boyfriend perched precariously on his lap. It’s obvious that no one cares that they’re gay; they’d rather hang around Pete, the cool sophomore. Brendon’s sure that he’s the only one in existence that’s in coheres with the upperclassmen.

“Babe!” Patrick giggles, his voice carrying across the lawn, sweeping any other sounds away from Brendon. He takes a swig from a Red Solo cup; Brendon knows that what's in there is definitely not grape juice. What is Pete doing to Patrick?!

Brendon’s face falls further as Pete pulls Patrick in for a sweet kiss. They were never public, per se, but they were not in the closet. And, by the looks of it, they’d been doing something similar for at least a bit, given by the _awws!_ sounding from the surrounding girls. Pete gives a goofy smile, and smoothers Patrick’s hair.

Swallowing heavily, Brendon staggers into the grass, sitting down criss-cross, feeling unbearably awkward. It's not even been an hour, tops, and he wants to go him. His face burns. People across from him are laughing and cheering, but all Brendon can focus on is the way Patrick’s looking at Pete.

“You’re into Patrick Stumph,” says a voice behind him. Startled, Brendon turns around to stare at the newcomer. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“But—I— _he_ ,” Brendon splutters, completely lost. Him— _Patrick?_ In the fading light, Brendon can see me stranger give him a sweet smile before throwing himself in the grass. He turns to follow him.

“Spencer Smith,” he introduces. “Pleasure to meet you.” Spencer holds out his hand and Brendon takes it. It’s calloused and rough, as if he plays an instrument or works a lot outside.

“Brendon Urie,” he replies. He looks over the other boy; a nice smile, light eyes, windswept brown hair. He seems to be older, a sophomore or junior possibly. Brendon has never seen him before. “Why do you think I like Patrick?”

“You do,” Spencer corrects. “And by the jealous looks you keep shooting over at him and lover boy, it’s rather easy to see.”

“Pete?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “But I don’t blame you. Their PDA is gross; I may need to bleach my eyes afterward.” Brendon decides he likes Spencer Smith, and laughs.

“Me too.”

After a minute of silence between the two of them, stretched out in the grass, Spencer says, “So, was that a big revelation for you?” Brendon raises an eyebrow.

“Liking Patrick? I don’t like him like tha— _oh_.” Oh, indeed. It doesn't hit Brendon until that moment, as he tries to deny it out loud. He does. Brendon takes a shaky breath. He never thought of it like that.

“See,” Spencer says smugly. “You like him.”

“But—But,” Brendon protests, his mind whirling, “he’s my best friend!”

“And secret-not-so-secret crush,” Spencer adds. “And that’s coming from me, a guy who’s known you for all of—” Spencer mimicked checking a watch “—3 minutes. It’s that obvious, Brendon.”

“But,” Brendon sputters helplessly. “He—and I—I dated Ryan for 6 months and nothing—Patrick said nothing.” And he didn’t. “Does he know?”

Spencer laughs. “I have no idea. Never talked to the guy. Seems nice enough, though.”

“Oh, he’s the best,” Brendon says excitedly. “He can play a million instruments and his voice is so smooth and he’s so kind and…” Brendon’s rambling. After a minute or so of his excited thoughts, he clamps a hand over his mouth. “Oh.”

Spencer smirks at him, amused. “You’ve got it hard.”

“I still don’t know how I didn’t realize this before,” Brendon laments, flopping down in the grass. His stomach jolts when he heard Patrick’s melodic laugh float across the lawn. It seems like a whole new world’s been opened up for him. Patrick.

“You’re 14,” Spencer says.

“15,” Brendon points out, “but I don’t see how age matters in this situation.”

“Romance is difficult at your age.”

“And you would know any better?” Brendon asks, threading his fingers through the grass. He swallows, realizing how thirsty he is. But, he realizes, the cooler is right by where the happy couple is sharing sweet kisses. No drinks for him, then.

“My girlfriend would hope so,” Spencer says. “Plus, kid, I’m 17, nearly out of here. You’ve got 3 more years to push through, with or without Patrick. You’ve got to learn to read your own emotions first, before you can others. I’m happy to be of help, but I’ve got to go. A beer is calling my name.” Spencer moves to stand up.

“You’re not legal!” Brendon says, mildly horrified, before realizing how uncool he sounds. Also, he’s talking back to a _senior_! “I’m sorry!”

Spencer just laughs. “Don’t be, kid. You’ve got spunk. Keep it. And don’t worry about me; one beer won’t hurt little old me. I hope you catch that boy of yours one day.” Before Brendon can respond, Spencer’s gone, disappeared in search of beer. Brendon flops down into the grass with a heavy sigh. Spencer’s words remind him of another’s, and it's a few seconds before he realizes that Patrick practically told him the same thing on the first day of school. Wow, okay.

What is he going to do? Now that he’s aware of his painful crush, it won’t leave him alone. He keeps periodically glancing over at Pete and Patrick, before turning green with envy and turning away. This night just keeps getting better and better.

  


Sometime later is when Patrick finally catches back up with Brendon. It’s fully dark now, the lights of Pete’s house casting daunting shadows. The party has picked up, more people joining the fray; Brendon stays in the shadows, hidden from view. When Patrick shows up, Brendon can't help but be bitter.

“Done hanging out with Pete?” Brendon asks, feigning joviality. Patrick sighs and flops into the grass, holding his head. Brendon feels his cheeks warm.

“I’m sorry for leaving you,” Patrick says. “I just—Pete wanted—”

Brendon cuts him off, “Save it. It’s fine, really.” No, it's not, but Brendon doesn't want to fight with Patrick tonight. He wants to go home and sleep, to be alone with his thoughts and 4 solid walls around him.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick repeats. Brendon turns to him and forces a smile.

“It’s okay,” he says, not at all convincing. “I just… you know how I am in new places.”

“I know, I’m—” Patrick starts.

“Sorry. I get it; it’s fine, really.” Brendon lays down on his back, studying the stars. It’s a gorgeous night; the stars twinkling, moon full, a clear sky. The grass is cool beneath his hands and head.

“Can I make it up to you?” Patrick asks hopefully. Take me home, Brendon thinks, but pretends to scratch his chin in thought.

“Get me a drink,” he says, not paying attention. He hears Patrick get up and jog across the grass, preferably to get him a drink. Brendon sighs and places his hand over his eyes. He’s so screwed. He can never stay mad at Patrick for long, even when he should.

Patrick returns a minute later, a Red Solo cup balanced precariously in his grip. In his other hand, he takes a swig from his own. Brendon gives him a confused look.

“It’s punch,” Patrick explains. Brendon nods and takes the cup, drinking deeply. It tastes slightly off, slightly bitter, but Brendon doesn't think much of it. The punch masks it. It makes him feel warm, as if he swallowed hot soup. He takes another swig.

“So,” he starts, “fun party, eh?” He scans the lawn again. More people had arrived, making it a near 60. The end of the school year is coming fast, so people are desperate for a party.

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes. He takes another drink and shudders. “People don't seem to judge that I’m gay, which is nice. Maybe because I’m with Pete.”

“Maybe,” Brendon agrees. Desperate for a subject change, Brendon comments, “It’s a nice night.”

“It is.” Patrick throws his arm around Brendon’s shoulder again, nudging his neck. A blush creeps up Brendon’s neck as he breathes in Patrick’s scent. Still the same as the beginning of the year, he notes. Now, though, Patrick’s breath has hints of alcohol in it. Instead of telling him off, Brendon nods and shifts closer.

  


It’s 11 PM, and Brendon and Patrick are in the pool. The effort that it took to convince Patrick to was almost too much, but in the end, Brendon got him to jump in with him. They stripped off, leaving them in their boxers and shorts.

Patrick’s giggling, leaning on Brendon, their legs touching. Brendon’s acutely aware of their skin touching in more places than he’s used to—Patrick almost always has long sleeves and jeans on. It’s a surprise he managed to get Patrick to take his shirt off, but Brendon decides it was probably because of the alcohol that he now knows was slipped into their drinks.

He hasn't drunk enough to become drunk, only to be a bit tipsy. He giggles right in Patrick’s ear, splashing him with the waist-height water.

“Brendon!” Patrick shrieks. He throws his hands out to connect with Brendon’s shoulders, laughing and pulling him closer. Their noses were almost touching and Patrick pulls a goofy grin. “You’re pretty.” Water drops down Brendon’s face, the chlorine getting near his eyes. He wipes it away.

“You are too, Patrick,” he says honestly. “But you’re drunk. Remember Pete, your bo-boyfriend?” Patrick’s too drunk to care—and he’s only had probably 3 cups of the spiked punch—and giggles. “You don’t hold your alcohol well.”

“I do!” Patrick protests. “But you are pretty. Your eyes are all sparkly and warm. Like hot chocolate!”

“I don’t think that hot chocolate is sparkly, but thank you.” Brendon’s aware that their noses are still almost touching, and their lips are centimeters away from each other. Patrick leans forward and they almost brush; Brendon panics and jumps backward, making a large splash in the water. When he resurfaces, shaking water from his hair, Patrick is giggling, like nothing had happened.

Brendon knows. He knows that something almost happened.

Maybe it’s his wishful crush or Patrick’s inability to hold alcohol, but he knows that they almost kissed.

_Almost._

 

 

When Brendon wakes up, he’s in a car. He’s still wet, shaking a bit from the cooled night air. “P’trick?” he mumbles.

“I’m here,” mumbles a voice to his right. Ah, that would explain the warm mass to his right.

“Where are we?” It has to be well after midnight, judging from the inky black sky.

“Mom’s car,” Patrick says shortly. “We’re almost to your house.” Brendon shifts so his head is on Patrick’s chest. He can hear his heart thumping; his skin is warm against Brendon’s ear.

“Okay,” Brendon whispers, allowing his eyes to flutter shut.

“Welcome to high school, Brendon,” Patrick mumbles, but his voice sounds far away. “Hope you enjoy the next 3 years.”

With Patrick by his side, he will.

 

 

**END OF PART ONE**

 


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